#ran'thas

The golden streets of Silvermoon always comforted Ran'thas greatly.  He remembered the dark times, the coming of the Scourge, when the glowing beauty of Quel'thalas was darkened and greyed with terror.  He remembered the Troll Wars, the problems with Thalassian borders of years passed.  He remembered the rise and fall of Kael'thas, the destruction of Arthas, the Nexus War, the breaking of Azeroth, the invasion of Pandaria, and Proudmoore's removal of the Sunreavers from Dalaran and the Kirin Tor proper.  Ran'thas closed his eyes and clenched his fists;

We have seen so much in so little time.

He relaxed slightly, opening his eyes once again and looking out upon the great Silvermoon City - walking through these gorgeous streets once again lifted away these negative thoughts.  The Sin'dorei were clearly on the right path, Ran'thas thought to himself - a path where the prosperous times of old may soon come to pass once again.

He tried not to let the past dig at him too much, though it proved a very difficult task.  Especially now as there was much to do and consider.  The return of the brothers Ronaestrider was something Ran'thas had to be very careful with.  He knew wholeheartedly that their tragedy in the Twilight Highlands was his fault, but he didn't regret his decisions - he knew he was right in that allowing the lesser races acceptance into their ranks would be a fatal mistake.

Still, Ruthar and Rehmaar are good, perhaps even great, men - it would be a shame to be on opposite sides over this.

Ran'thas's mind immediately turned to his meeting with his Forsaken associate Traegus Frostbane.  The looming and powerful Death Knight had been cast aside by almost the entirety of the Horde, but Ran'thas saw an opportunity in him for his own personal gain.  Traegus was a fantastic tool to use against those who would so readily stand up to Ran'thas and his ideas, a powerful ally that would serve Ran'thas almost unquestioningly.  The loose morals of the Forsaken were truly an asset to Ran'thas would the necessity arise.  Ran'thas sighs heavily, his soft shoes silently pressing against the stone street;

Let's just hope the Ronaestriders will not need to come in contact with Master Frostbane - hopefully we can move past the errors of the past into a more prosperous future.  That is, after all, what we all want.

Heading southwest out of the city's main gates, Ran'thas makes his way back to his estate just north of the border to the Ghostlands.  The humming magical wards dance playfully against him as he makes his way onto his property, the arcane energies a welcoming feeling to the masterful mage.  He makes his way around back of the estate, towards a large orange-yellow tree a good hundred meters from his back porch.

He approaches slowly, his green glowing eyes becoming softer as he makes his way towards the ancient tree.  Images of the past assail him as he reaches the tree - a gorgeous young magistrix sitting in a large, red, comfortable chair in the candlelight; the same figure sitting behind a large runed book studying its magical contents; the magnificent Sunwell in all it's glory guarded by the magistrix and a handful of other powerful arcane wielders; their marriage on Sunstrider Isle; the happiness they shared;

...and her catastrophic death at the hands of one of Arthas's powerful knights.

Ran'thas stooped low, placing the bouquet of roses he purchased in Silvermoon City in front of the gravestone beneath the magnificent tree.  With a greatly pained smile, the magister runs his hand delicately across the top of the headstone and along the imprinted lettering.

Ran'thas looked into the amber liquid in his glass thoughfully, his mind racing about with recent events.  Things had been quiet for too long and he new it.  The past finally catching up to him came at no real surprise.

He just always dreaded it.

The Magister quickly downs the last of his glass of fine alcohol, the desk resonating with a satisfying thud as he sets the emptied cup down.  The Ronaestriders had no idea - there is no way they could have known where the orders actually came from.  He walked over to the window, peering out upon the twilight with his hands clasped behind his back.

His small estate in Southern Quel'thalas on the border of the Ghostlands was a great place to come to think, to isolate himself from the greater affairs of Silvermoon, and to conduct private or personal business.  He sighed as he looked over to his desk again, his eyes scanning the documents he had there - the files of the fallen Knights of Valiant Fury, the military unit he himself had commissioned those years ago.  The same unit Ruthar and Rehmaar Ronaestrider had overseen as it marched upon its fateful expedition into the Twilight Highlands.

It's not my fault they failed - I told them what would happen if they opened the ranks to the impure lesser races.  A pity good Elven blood was wasted thanks to incompetent Horde mongrels.

Ran'thas' mind returned to times past when Rehmaar Ronaestrider had approached him in this very office.  His black and red armour glinted in the candlefire as the Magister listened to his advice.  They were friends and colleagues for a very long time - Rehmaar was a prolific alchemist in the days before Silvermoon's fall while Ran'thas tended to one of the libraries which Rehmaar frequented.

He never could see reason, always thinking of grander plans.

It was Rehmaar's idea to open up the Knights to accepting other members of the Horde.  He had preached that they needed to reach out to their capable allies in order to strengthen their bonds with the Horde and to ensure Thalassian security.  Ran'thas, however, saw it as a serious threat.

The Orcs will run us into the ground with their bloodlust, their desire for war and conflict.  We will never know peace alongside the likes of them.

Rehmaar had none of it, however - he was stoic in his beliefs to a fault.  Ran'thas tried for an extended period of time to get Rehmaar to see eye-to-eye with him, but it was simply no use.  The Blood Knight would do everything and anything in his power to get his way.  The Magister knew his ties to the Order were strong, putting Ran'thas in a precarious position.

I was right afterall.

Ran'thas snapped a finger as the candles in the room illuminated, their flickering glow casting shadows upon the walls.  He sat behind his desk, his elbow upon the wood propping up his head.  His eyes moved over to the parchment to his right, the bold words on the top seemingly looking right back at him.

ATTN: TWILIGHT HIGHLANDS ACTIVITY - REQUESTING ASSISTANCE

I knew it would be the proper test - to finally show them that those not of our lineage are lesser.  Hopefully they've realized it themselves.

The loud knock on his door snapped the Magister out of his memories of the past.  The clanking armour plating indicated to Ran'thas that his associate had finally arrived.

"Master Frostbane of the Undercity," he said in an authoritative tone as he raised himself to stand behind his desk.

He lifts his hands up in front of him, a deep stern expression spread across his face.  Fire dances upon his fingers growing in intensity as his green eyes flicker in the flames.  With an aggressive push, the fireball is launched at the undead crawling below, igniting the rotted flesh in a torrent of fire.  He smirks for a second at his victory, but it is immediately wiped when he looks out into the distance. By the Sunwell. Before he even has a chance to react, the undead are pouring onto Quel'danas.  Ran'thas looks upon the faces of the magisters around him, the expressions grim as they watch the monstrosities slam onto the shore.  He looks to his left at the beautiful magistrix at his side, her golden hair tossing in the breeze as her intense eyes look upon the Scourge onslaught.  Ran'thas runs his hand along her cheek, knocking her out of her trance for just a moment.  He looks to her with a warm and caring expression, temporarily ignoring the fast-approaching army. "I love you." Arturia smiles at him through tear-filled eyes.  A shout from further down the wall shatters the tender moment, indicating that the Scourge have finally penetrated the defenses.  The arcane energies of the casters make the very air around them heavy with magic as they desperately try to protect their most sacred of locales - the Sunwell. The Scourge finally beset upon the magisters in a climactic clash of magic and necromancy.  Undead calamities are torn apart with corpse-shattering spellwork while weary casters are thrown about like play things.  Ran'thas growls through gritted teeth as he launches spell after spell at the massive army, hoping desperately to make a dent in their forces.  Weariness begins to set in, the magical spells testing every fiber of his abilities. He spins around to avoid the glowing runeblade of an undead soldier.  Ran'thas whips up his hands in an attempt to call upon the arcane, blasting the undead creature directly in the face.  It crumples in a howl of pain, allowing Ran'thas to see Arturia fighting just beyond him.  It almost appeared she was dancing from target to target, her finesse and mastery with the arcane such an elegant display of magical prowess. Ran'thas is slapped back into the fray as another undead nearly slices through his torso, missing by mere inches with his glowing blade of death.  Another gesture of his hands sends a powerful bolt of flame into the chest of his quarry.  A scream penetrates Ran'thas' ears, but not from the undead now laying at his feet. He turns around, hands already in the air prepared for an attack.  His eyes find Arturia once again, her golden hair whipping around wildly with her movements now dropping motionless upon her shoulders.  Ran'thas move his eyes down with horror, finding a runeblade shoved through her chest and out through her back.  For a moment, time seems suspended as Ran'thas views the terrible scene.  Arturia opens her eyes slowly, looking back to Ran'thas with a terrified and pleading expression of sadness as the runeblade is pulled up through her body and out of her head in a torrent of gore.

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